


Itch

by Nymeria578



Series: Awakening [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Humor, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2536364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s experiments as he often does when they have no case. Only this time it goes wrong, and John has to handle the consequences which takes him to an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itch

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically this is a sequel to “Domestic Bliss” but it can be regarded as a one chapter standalone without knowing much about the former events. All you should know is that Emma Grace Watson is John’s and Mary’s daughter. They got divorced and John has the sole custody. Mary’s on the run and John nurtures their daughter together with Sherlock with whom he has a relationship since three years.
> 
> …
> 
> “That just, sort of, happened.”
> 
> And I assume no liability for my mental outpouring ;) I just got carried away.
> 
> Please note, that English isn’t my first language, so please forgive me my silly mistakes.

„Emma Grace Watson!“ Sherlock’s baritone voice boomed reproachfully through the flat of 221B, emphasizing each name.

John, who prepared breakfast for his little family, knew that sub textual tone of his partner, and he had a sense of foreboding. Putting the jam on the table, he crossed the kitchen to walk to the origin of the baritone.

Sherlock stood in their bedroom in front of their chest of drawers, the upmost drawer opened. He held a small black cloth in his right hand, and John’s brows shot up, _Oh!_ Emma was accused of having committed the worst crime imaginable in 221B – she had messed with Sherlock’s sock index… again.

Stifling a chuckle at the incredulous expression of his friend, he cleared his voice. Sherlock’s head snapped to John, “ _Your_ daughter knows exactly that this drawer is the only taboo I demand from her, and yet again she had made a mess of my socks.”

To compose his expression John folded his eyebrows in a frown. Sherlock loved to refer to Emma as _your daughter_ when he was cross with her. But most of the time it was _his daughter_ , especially when she attended one of his experiments. “Sherlock, she’s three years old,” John tried to reason his friend, and then added quickly, “It’s not just her fault alone. You always play with her hide and seek.” A game not in the traditional sense, as John knew. Sherlock rather hid clues all over the flat to make her solve homemade crimes.

“But it’s my sock index, John.” He sighed stubbornly, pulling a face. John rolled his eyes. Sometimes it felt as if he had two children at home, and he couldn’t decide which of them was more childish.

“Certainly she had been looking for clues again.” He pointed out, shrugging his shoulders.

Sherlock raised one brow, clenching his jaw as he realized that John made a valid point. He sighed, “Maybe I should just give it up then.” Tossing the lonely sock into the mess of the drawer, he turned his head to the living room when they heard a faint humming sound.

John’s jaw dropped open at the declaration. “Wow,” he said astonished, “Then she has truly turned your live upside down. She should pass her secret on to me how to twist you around her little finger.”

Raising a mischievous eyebrow, Sherlock lowered his head to John’s ear, smirking, “You know how to twist me around _your_ finger.” At this John blushed in a delicate red, and while Sherlock nibbled tenderly at his friend’s earlobe, the humming got louder and entered their bedroom.

A wild little bee ran to their bed, jumped onto the mattress to make it her private moonwalk, interrupting her humming with a squeak of glee. “I found it. I found it.” The object of her desire lay in her hand, raised to the ceiling in triumph while Emma made a mess of their neatly folded duvets.

John crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking amused at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, gesturing in silence, _See!_

Rolling his eyes exuberantly, Sherlock held his hand out to take the object, “Where did you find it?”

The little bee interrupted her jumping and handed a clean petri dish over, “Your clues led me to the skull.”

A proud smile curled around Sherlock’s lips, “That’s my girl.” He bent forward and kissed her cheek approvingly.

John’s eyebrows shot up, “Now we’re at _my_ again?” There was a hint of a reproach before he addressed his daughter, “Young lady, you messed up the sock index of your dad.”

The triumphant smile faded and a sheepish expression took its place, “Oh, I’m sorry.” But Sherlock had already forgiven his little daughter. Mentally John chuckled at the madman’s behavior. Over the past two years he had barely changed. The outside world was still his battleground, and he treated everyone but his family as an enemy. Their friends moved around a gray area and were tolerated but only when it pleased Sherlock. But about Emma and John, he did an about-face. Bit by bit, he aligned himself with the new situation of having a child. Even the body parts vanished from the fridge, at least the bigger ones while small parts were put into black plastic boxes. And now Emma even achieved that Sherlock abolished his sock index.

“All right,” John clapped his hands, “Off you go. Breakfast’s prepared.” He waved the busy little bee towards the kitchen. “You, too.” He said pointedly, putting a hand at the small of his friend’s back, shoving him out of the bedroom.

In the kitchen Emma struggled with her bee costume to take a seat until Sherlock lifted her up on the chair. He took a seat opposite her, changing conspiring looks with each other. It was strange how much she resembled Sherlock in his manners and interests. He was a magnet and everything he did, especially involving crime scenes were too much a temptation. Maybe she took after John in the end, he thought amused. Unfortunately that made her vulnerable to others who didn’t take her how she was. The first day in kindergarten sank like a stone. The other children wrinkled their noses at her for having two fathers. Sometimes children could be gruesome at the unknown, and it made John’s heart clench in distress. The other aspect was her interests in biology and deductions rather than in toys. After the disaster of her first day Sherlock bought her the bee costume. As silly as it sounded, but he explained her with the costume she would proudly show everybody her uniqueness and wear it like an armor. The next day in kindergarten all the other children gaped but oddly it had worked, and the following days other children followed her example. Since then Emma wore her bee costume like Sherlock wore his suits.

When they had finished breakfast, John put the little bee in a matching yellow rain jacket because a chilly spring rain had started to drum at their windows. Then they left Sherlock for his emails and newspapers and John brought Emma to kindergarten.

On his way back to 221B he finished the shopping at Tesco’s and headed back with heavy plastic bags, climbing the seventeen steps to their flat. Secretly he hoped that Sherlock hadn’t found any decent case. The weather was too unpleasant than to run London’s cobweb of streets, not to mention that he was completely drenched from the rain. Luckily Sherlock still sat at the desk, skimming through the newspapers. So, no new cases.

Heaving the bags onto the kitchen table, he sighed at the imminent task of washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen. It was a dance they did every day, unless they had a case or John needed to go to the surgery. John would clean the kitchen removing the remnants of breakfast, and Sherlock would occupy the room for his experiments afterwards. They had reached this settlement only on one condition – Sherlock would clean his own mess up. It actually worked. The microwave and stove were well kept clean, as well as the fridge. John had threatened Sherlock if the kitchen was not tidy when Emma came home, Sherlock wouldn’t be allowed any dangerous experiments in 221B anymore.

When John had finished his duty, the detective and his blogger switched their places. John checked on his website for any recent comments or skimmed through the newspapers, while Sherlock retrieved from the cupboards his microscope, Bunsen burner and the glassware he needed for his experiments.

John made himself comfortable on the sofa, legs folded and newspaper spread across his lap. He found an article about a burglary at a jeweler. They had solved the case two days ago. Sherlock found the crime rather dull because within three hours he knew that the shop owner himself had stolen several very expensive jewelry pieces to reap the insurance sum. Along those cases with the lack of corpses or injured people they even took Emma with them. Sherlock was completely in his element where he could show off with Emma by involving her in looking for clues.

Somehow, John got the feeling that Sherlock wanted her to follow his footsteps and become a consulting detective. As young and innocent as Emma still was, John feared those times when she would hit puberty and suddenly her fathers weren’t that important anymore but boyfriends or girlfriends. Pursing his lips at the prospect, John decided to better hide his gun in case Sherlock would chase a possible date across half Baker Street.

“Fuck!” A deep baritone swore from the kitchen, interrupting John’s chain of thoughts. He looked up, frowning at the kitchen. It was very rare that Sherlock swore. He considered bad language as a lack of knowledge in more sophisticated words.

“You okay?” John asked. Due to the wall he could neither see Sherlock nor the entire kitchen table but he heard the faint sound of clinking glass.

He answered with another murmured curse, and then John heard the rustling of clothes and the distinctive sound of pushing a chair over the tiles of the kitchen floor. When Sherlock came into view, he washed his hands hastily in the sink and grabbed a paper towel form the kitchen unit, wiping the exposed skin under the vee of his dressing gown. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt this morning, clad only in his blue striped pajama trousers and his favorite dark blue dressing gown. After a while of rubbing his chest dry, he surrendered and tossed the paper towel into the bin. “Dammit!”

 _Three curses!_ John folded the newspaper and put it neatly onto the coffee table. Entangling his legs to brace his elbows on his bent knees, he narrowed his eyes at his partner. “What’s up, Sherlock?” There was a hint of a warning hidden in his voice because it wasn’t the first time an experiment went wrong.

Suddenly Sherlock whirled around, “Ahem,” he cleared his throat, gripping the kitchen surface hard behind him as if he needed to steady himself. No, not to steady himself as John observed. Something was wrong. It rather seemed that he restrained his hands to do something. His whole body tensed but John could see that his muscles were twitching.

John couldn’t decide whether he should be concerned or amused. He couldn’t help but a chuckled snort bubbled up his throat at the sight of Sherlock fighting an invisible enemy. “Sherlock, you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

His partner’s eyes were wide, alarmed. Tears stung to his eyes and his otherwise full lips were pressed together, biting the inside. His nostrils flared as he tried to calm his breathing but failed miserably, “Oh God,” he exhaled shakily, letting go of the surface. Instead his hands started frantically to scrub over his chest, seeking relief in the friction, “John, it itches terribly.”

Sherlock’s movements were similar to a dance, his slender body lax while he drew closer to the sofa, his palms and fingers relentlessly scratching his sensitive pale skin. John knew it wasn’t decent but his chuckle turned into a full giggle at the sight of Sherlock trying to rip off his dressing gown in the effort of getting better access to the obscured body parts. “What have you done?” John tried to reign in his tone and got up from the sofa.

“Highly concentrated… um,” he shrugged his right arm out of the dressing gown while his left hand still rubbed over his chest, “Highly concentrated itching powder… mixed with… um… some very clinging chemicals.” Unfortunately the dressing gown was covered with the mix and while Sherlock put the gown off the fabric stroked along his back, reacting with his skin at once. “Oh, great.” Sherlock groaned as the itching at his back started.

Open mouthed John stood in the middle of their living room unable to reign in the flutter in his stomach. No, it was not decent at all. But he couldn’t help it with Sherlock’s pajama trouser hanging loose on his hips, showing the ridges of the bones while his whole torso was a play of muscles moving beneath reddening skin. It was utterly beautiful. “Christ,” he swore mildly, rolling his tongue over his bottom lip, “Sherlock, stop it.” He took the hands of his partner in his own to stop him from further scratching. “You’re going to tear off your skin.”

Scrunching up his face in agony, Sherlock begged, “But John, it itches tremendously.” He blinked several times at his lover, “You’re a doctor. Help me, please.”

John took a deep intake of breath to push aside the hilariously funny aspect of that accident. “All right, let me see.” He brushed gentle fingertips over the flawless skin, tracing the scar of the bullet wound until he felt that his own skin started to tingle. He wasn’t just quite sure, if it was the effect of the powder under his fingers or if it was a beginning arousal. _No, definitely not very decent_. “You have to stop scratching, otherwise you break the skin, even though if it’s only a bit, the powder and chemicals get under the first layer of your skin and the itching will increase.”

Sherlock’s chest was heaving with the effort of restraint but he nodded in the end. “What can we do?”

“First we must wash your front with clear water, and then I’d suggest using oil with a calming effect on the skin.” He shrugged helplessly. What else could he do? He wasn’t a dermatologist. The powder just needed to get off Sherlock’s skin. With the chemicals compounded, it provoked an allergy-like reaction. That’s why the itching would presumably last a few hours. The oil might soothe the symptoms. “We still have Emma’s baby oil.”

Not letting go of Sherlock’s hands just in case he wasn’t able to resist the itching, John led them both to the bathroom. From the small closet under the sink he retrieved several terry towels and a soft washcloth while he pointed to the toilet for Sherlock to take a seat.

The lanky man sat down onto the closed toilet seat, wrapping his arms around his torso in a protective manner. He swayed slightly backwards and forwards as if to divert himself from scratching. Meanwhile, John filled the sink with lukewarm water and dipped the washcloth into the clear fluid. He gave Sherlock a towel to put it onto his lap. Then he squatted down in front of his partner, “Arms aside.”

Sherlock’s hands gripped the edges of the toilet seat hard, waiting for the warm water to ease the itch. John started at his throat and applied a light pressure, while rubbing the cloth down to his chest. There were already thin red lines visible building quite a contrast to the pallor of Sherlock’s skin. Yet the alabaster color had faded and made place for a pink as if he was blushing.

With each stroke of the cooling wetness Sherlock relaxed, the tight grip loosening. Water drops painted the light blue towel on his lap with dark dots, and John heard his lover sighing. The tension in his body faded slowly while John took the burning feeling off his ravaged skin. Closing his eyes, he threw his head back into his neck, enjoying the touch. It wasn’t just the touch he relished. It was John’s touch. It had always been John’s touch; the tentative gentle caress with his fingertips fluttering over his body, while his palms added a firmer pressure which made the tickle into a warm brush of skin on skin.

Opening his eyes again, he parted his lips exhaling another sigh, a quiet purr of his deep baritone. He looked down with blown wide pupils at John and blushed even more, painting his cheekbones in a delicate red. Those moments were the most intimate, when John needed to patch up wounds on Sherlock’s body. Mostly it resulted in a common dance in their bed. John’s touches were just too tempting. Only the still lingering itch reminded him of his plight, willing every thought about his arousal away.

John on the other hand needed to stifle a chuckle. He liked to touch Sherlock, soft smooth skin warm under his fingers and beneath he felt strong sinewy muscles moving. Sherlock denied it vehemently, but he was indeed a bit ticklish and it was just too tempting for John to let his fingers play the game. He knew it would arouse his lover. It was like give-and-take, and Sherlock’s arousal evoked the same effect on John. The game was on. _No, it’s never decent_.

When he had finished washing every inch of exposed skin, John threw a dry terry towel to Sherlock while he looked for the baby oil in the mirror cabinet. “Off to bed now.” He grinned at the command.

To not mess with the oil in the bed, John spread the rest of the towels over the sheet and draped the duvets over the chair near the window. “Lie down.” John pointed to the middle of their bed, stripping off his button-down shirt and jeans because he didn’t want to ruin them.

Unconsciously Sherlock rubbed with the ball of his thumbs over his still slightly itching skin while he climbed onto the bed, lying down on his back. John took the oil form the nightstand and followed Sherlock, straddling him and sensing the semi-hardness beneath the thin fabric of his pajama trousers, eyes sparkling mischievously.

He opened the cap with a flick, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s, a grin displaying on his face. Turning the bottle he let the sluggish fluid pour onto Sherlock’s sternum from where it trailed the delicate way down to his stomach. It pooled in the middle of the valley between his abdominal muscles. The cool oil made Sherlock twitch a bit at his heated skin. John huffed a silent laugh, and then clapped his hands together to rub them at each other for warmth.

Broad hands sank into the fluid, increasing a gentle pressure to spread the oil onto his lover. He started from the middle straight upwards over the small ridge to his chest, sparse hair giving a distinct contrast to the smooth and soft skin. When he had reached the protruding collar bones, he bent forward to brush his lips lightly over Sherlock’s mouth, imitating the careful touch of his hands. Sherlock followed his lover’s mouth when he retreated again, ending the chaste kiss to let his hands glide to the flanks of Sherlock’s body. With a dissatisfied groan Sherlock let his head fall back into the pillow. John could easily give him a massage while kissing him, he thought stubbornly. Then he gasped and John chuckled at the _not decent_ undoing of his lover. His sticky hands had reached the oversensitive skin of his nipples. Beneath his palms he sensed them tightening, little buds poking into his hands. Under the touch Sherlock couldn’t help but started to squirm delicately, his body a play of tense muscles moving beneath flushed skin. John wasn’t just so sure anymore if the flushing was due to the powder or his lover’s increasing arousal. He decided for the latter as he felt the heavy throbbing of Sherlock’s straining erection below his own hardness.

Sherlock’s own hands couldn’t stay idle while John drew circles at his torso to spread the oil. He run them up his lover’s spread thighs, rounding them over his gray boxers to press them firmly on John’s buttocks, squeezing in a gentle caress.

John looked up from his massage, finding two dark pools with an eclipse of pale blue. His thumbs were tracing the undulating landscape of Sherlock’s ribcage for which he reaped a twitch beneath his fingers. While Sherlock increased the pressure on John’s buttock, implying John should roll his hips against his crotch, his lover once again let brush his thumbs over the pink buds of his nipples. Sherlock couldn’t hold back anymore and let his hips thrust upwards to seek friction, lifting John a bit in the effort. The shorter man chuckled warmly, “You know, it’s really not decent to use your plight for my own satisfaction.”

“It’s a game two can play.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled deep in his throat raw with need, his hands moving to the hem of John’s shirt, pushing it up over John’s stomach and chest. John pulled it over his head and tossed it on the floor. “Besides,” Sherlock continued, his hands now trailing the soft flesh of John’s belly, feeling coarse hair beneath his palms up to his navel, “If you lie down on me, the added friction will certainly ease the itch.” He raised playfully one eyebrow at the ambiguity of his words.

 _How could that man have survived thirty five years without having sex?_ John thought amused. “Alright,” was the plain answer, and John hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Sherlock’s obscenely low hanging pajama trousers. Getting up from his straddling position, he shoved the trousers in one swift move down the endless legs of his lover. While disposing of his own boxers to shed the last remnant of his dignity, he looked hungrily at Sherlock on the white sheets, his body flushed in the most delicate pink.

When he climbed back onto the bed, he bent Sherlock’s knees, spreading them to place himself in front of his lover’s entrance. Once again he fished for the oil. Too lazy to retrieve the lubricant from Sherlock’s nightstand, he clicked the cap open, pouring the translucent liquid into his right palm. Curling a palm around his shaft, he spread the oil with a languid stroke up and down to round the glans in the end.

Sherlock rolled his tongue over his bottom lip impatiently while John prepared himself, bracing his feet onto the mattress with bent knees. Beneath him he crumpled the towels up and put them under the small of his back. Like this his lover could enter at a better angle. John drew closer, adjusting his position. He placed his spread legs under Sherlock’s thighs whose eyes rolled momentarily back behind fluttering eyelids as John probed one finger behind his lover’s taut muscle. With the practice they had shared for the last two and a half years, John found quickly the sensitive tissue of the prostate and made Sherlock gasp at the overwhelming feeling. Then a second finger followed, starting to stretch the muscle gently. Unabashedly Sherlock started to roll his hips, riding John’s fingers.

Leaning over Sherlock, he put his mouth to his ear, “You know, you wouldn’t have to throw itching powder all over your torso, if you wanted to have sex.” He chuckled, his breath tickling Sherlock’s sensitive earlobe, “You just could have asked.”

“Idiot.” Sherlock scolded at the teasing, catching his breath as John once again brushed along his weak point. Withdrawing his fingers, he nibbled and kissed his way along Sherlock’s jaw. His lover smelled of the expensive after-shave he had used a few hours ago, his skin soft and smooth. Then he pressed slowly his cock into his lover, while he found the parting lips of Sherlock at the intrusion, gasping for breath, for taste, for John. Their tongues melted with each other in the kiss, first a gentle caress which grew into a more urgent want.

When John was fully sheathed, he leant back a bit, waiting a moment for both to get used to the tight and stretching sensation. Adjusting their positions one more time, Sherlock’s hands came forward cupping the ridges of John’s hipbones, a silent consent that John could start to move.

Carefully John withdrew a bit to press again into Sherlock. A slow rhythm of lascivious stabs was set, and then John bent forward again, closing the gap between their bodies. Each movement letting them rub a little against each other, a relieving friction for Sherlock’s oversensitive skin. But to be honest with himself, Sherlock admitted that the itching became secondary the moment John had set his hands on him.

With wavering lips, he started to moan with each thrust while the pleasure sought his own rhythm pooling at the base of his belly in hot waves. Goose bumps rippled his whole body until he realized that he met each thrust with an involuntary roll of his hips, the muscles of his legs strained and his toes curled.

His hands had moved upwards, one cupping John’s neck while the other raked through the honey and gray hair at the back of his head, bringing him down on his lips again. The familiar dance let their tongues stroke at each other, tasting, sucking, gasping.

Sherlock’s trapped erection savored the added friction between their bellies, throbbing with sweet pain for release. The sticky feeling of oil mingled with pre-cum leaking from the tip of his cock. Inevitably and involuntarily John drove him towards his climax. The stabs became longer and more intrusive, undoing the electrifying impulses deep down in his inner core, sending tingles all over his body. Sherlock knew he wouldn’t last long anymore, too tempting and teasing had been the foreplay.

“Harder,” he panted when they broke the kiss.

John’s eyes sparkled at the command. Sherlock in his character traits was always bossy – be it at a case, at home or in bed. He knew exactly what he wanted and how he could manipulate people into doing so; even John wasn’t always immune to it. Especially in bed he obliged happily. He enjoyed too much the undoing of the great consulting detective, seeing the vulnerable man behind his well-built smooth façade.

Throwing his head back into the neck, Sherlock let his hands drop from John’s head to grip a fistful of white sheets. While John’s thrusts met him harder, Sherlock found his own rhythm of arching his back and rolling his hips. Soon the muscles of his legs ached at the effort but he ignored it, like he ignored the itching. The waves of pleasure began radiating from the base of his belly, sending impulses through his whole body, which started to feel numb and tingly at the same time. The additional friction on his throbbing cock between their stomachs rubbing against each other fueled his own imminent climax.

“Harder John,” he gasped again with squeezed shut eyes, white stars emerging from the corners of his dark vision.

Obligingly John snaked his arms beneath Sherlock, circling his waist to put his hands onto his lover’s buttocks. Like this he could meet each thrust with a slight lift of Sherlock’s hips to get even deeper.

Then the stars exploded behind Sherlock’s closed eyelids. The sweet cramping and convulsing in his belly emanated in shudders all over his body as he reached his climax almost violently, squirming and fidgeting beneath John.

“God,” a deep groan bubbled up his throat, rolling over his larynx and escaping rather like a loud purr as the orgasm washed over him.

John needed to grit his teeth at his lover’s movement, the taut muscle tightening around his cock. Yet he continued his deep thrusts, knowing he wouldn’t last any longer either.

“Fuck,” he swore after the last deep thrust, bowing his back as he shuddered under his own climax. John had put his face into the crook where Sherlock’s shoulder met his neck, another string of curses muffling as he bit carefully into the sinewy flesh.

When he had spent himself into Sherlock, he lifted his head, warm steel blue eyes looking down at his lover appreciatively. They indulged in another lazy kiss before John’s muscles slackened and he collapsed onto Sherlock, his head nestled at his flushed chest.

It took them a while to even out their ragged breaths. Under John’s ear the rapid thunderstorm of a heartbeat calmed down, and he withdrew with a sigh. Rolling onto his back, he closed his eyes succumbing to drowsiness. “That was amazing.” He lulled, and Sherlock chuckled at his friend’s ability of being prone to praising wonderment.

Sherlock had lifted his arm over John’s head and started to draw lazy circles across his soft short hair, reaping a sympathetic hum. The cool air of the room soon took its toll. Both men had been sweating, and as John started to shiver, his hand brushed lightly over his belly, feeling the stickiness of his sweat mingled with the baby oil and Sherlock’s sperm. Absent-mindedly he increased the pressure of his fingers and palm, the light brush becoming a stroke and then a scratch.

“Shit,” he cursed suddenly.

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked through bleary eyes which snapped open when he heard John scratching his stomach.

“I haven’t thought of it that it would rub off on me, too.”

Raising one eyebrow, Sherlock realized his own itch again now that the aftermath of their sex had vanished. But seeing John rubbing his palms over his torso was too hilarious. “You remember,” Sherlock echoed John’s words of before, “Don’t scratch. You’ll make it worse.”

Now John glowered at his amused lover, “You,” he addressed Sherlock reproachfully in between his scratches, “You should have thought of it. You always think of everything.”

Sherlock rolled on his own stomach, hoping the itching wouldn’t increase too much when cotton met his skin. “I was emotionally compromised,” he confessed, the chuckle turning into a hearty laughter, “But be glad, that you only got the rest of what had lingered on my body instead of getting the real itching powder with its chemical compound.”

John rolled onto his side, defeated. Folding his arms around his torso, he tried to prevent his own urge to scratch, “How long will that last?”

“Until the chemicals are losing their effect, which will be in one or two hours.”

John wailed a sigh, “Damn!”

A mischievous sparkle let Sherlock’s eyes flash, “I know what might help,” he suggested, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, and John’s head snapped up at the innuendo.

Knitting his eyebrows, John admitted, “I don’t think I’m up for a second round yet.”

“But I am.” Sherlock’s voice got a sultry edge as he leant over to John, purring into his ear.

John’s mouth formed a silent _Oh_ , and his brows shot up at Sherlock’s suggestion. His lover had already made up his mind as he nibbled at John’s earlobe, sucking it into his mouth playfully.

John drew a sharp intake of breath as he realized yet again his own nascent arousal due to Sherlock’s torture of his earlobe and the pulse below. Sometimes the man could be irresistible and insatiable as if he was on some cases. Nonetheless, John shuddered a sigh when Sherlock’s lips closed around his own.

Rolling over his lover, Sherlock nudged a bit at John’s hips to indicate that he should roll onto his stomach. He placed soft kisses along his neck, sometimes letting his teeth scrape over the sensitive skin.

“Like this, it won’t be much of a satisfaction for my itching stomach.” John complained half-heartily.

Sherlock hummed an agreement but didn’t bother with any switching of their positions. His hands stroked decisively over John’s shoulder blades, tracing the twin scars at his left shoulder and pressing a soft kiss onto it. Experimentally he trailed one long finger along the notches of John’s spine until he reached the coccyx. Then he led his hands glide around John’s waist, leaning back so he straddled his lover’s thighs. He tugged gently at John’s hipbones, implying that he should lift his butt. This all happened ever so slowly that it bordered at a pleasant torture.

Chuckling at the tentative effort, John obliged and knew exactly what Sherlock was up to. Once again Sherlock retrieved the bottle with the oil, pooling some of the thick fluid into his palm. He closed the cap of the bottle again and placed it beside his knee for further purposes. Then he rubbed his hands together, spreading the oil, and placed them again at John’s hips. Setting a slow pace, he ran his hands up his lover’s flanks, rounding them to his front. Beneath his fingers he felt John catching his breath at the overwhelming sensation.

Ever so gently Sherlock stroked upwards to John’s chest, yet again applying soft pressure to indicate that his lover should get up, propping himself onto his outstretched arms. In one fluid movement Sherlock followed John’s move, leaving his thighs and placing himself behind his back.

Sherlock drew circles over John’s chest, teasingly brushing over protruding nipples while John flexed his muscles in his back with restraint. A grin tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s lips, when he had run his hands back to the base of John’s belly, tracing one languid finger down his already twitching erection.

“I thought you weren’t ready yet.” Sherlock crooned into John’s ear once again, his body leant over John’s back.

Huffing a laugh, John turned his head to Sherlock, “It’s all your fault.” Then he placed his hands onto the top of the headboard, “And now stop being such a teaser.” He wrinkled his nose playfully and captured Sherlock’s bottom lip, sucking at it greedily.

Sherlock returned the favor, stroking his tongue across John’s upper lip before he leant back, grabbing the baby oil. He coated his fingers with the smooth fluid. Droplets fell onto the sheets but Sherlock didn’t care because the bedclothes were ruined anyway. Then he mimicked John’s stretching with his fingers.

Gripping the headboard hard that even the white of his knuckles were visible, John let his head fall down to his chest, catching his breath. Usually he took the lead. At the beginning of their relationship they soon discovered that Sherlock rather liked to be led in bed. Only every now and then he liked to take over, and John obliged although he wasn’t as used to it as Sherlock.

“Relax,” Sherlock said in a soft voice, bending down to place breathless kisses along the lines displaying the firm muscles of his shoulders. There was still a faint tan line visible at his neck, a remnant of the burning sun of Afghanistan.

Withdrawing his fingers, Sherlock spread his legs a bit to compensate their height difference, and then slicked his cock from shaft to glans. Pressing his cock slowly into the taut muscle, John gasped in surprise at the stretching feeling while Sherlock pushed relentlessly yet carefully forward.

When he was fully sheathed he waited a moment, his hands running up and down John’s front. His head rested on John’s shoulder, trying to even his breath. In the end he pressed his right hand at John’s base of the belly as if he wanted to feel their connection. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

Carefully he started to roll his hips against John. He let them get used to the feeling with slow deliberate thrusts. Leaning back on his knees again, he retrieved his hands from John’s slick stomach to run them back to the crests of his hipbones. Like this he held him steady as his thrusts increased in pace and depth.

John started to moan at the explosion of feelings in his stomach, as Sherlock brushed again and again along the oversensitive tissue of his prostate. His moans mingled with some incomprehensible strings of curses. His right hand let go of the headboard, and he reached behind to grab Sherlock’s thigh. When he couldn’t see him, or touch him, he needed to make himself aware that he was there by making a connection of a touch behind him. As Sherlock’s thrust got faster and deeper, John’s grip tightened and he knew before night, he would have left small red bruises.

As if in an answer Sherlock put his hand over John’s, letting the touch convey all their feelings, all their needs. Curling his fingers around John’s wrist, he panted heavily, “God, John, I’m close.” The sweet electrifying impulses sent waves of pleasure directly to the tip of his cock, and a first shudder washed over him, making his whole body ripple with goose bumps.

Keeping still to compose himself, Sherlock tried to breathe through his nose. He knew that there remained only a few thrusts to make him come undone completely. With caution he sagged again onto John’s strong back, feeling the ragged breath of his lover mingling with his own. His arm snaked around John’s torso, and Sherlock loosened John’s hand around his own cock to replace it with his own.

“Christ,” John gasped, realizing that this was exactly what he wanted, an added touch by his lover which would bring him towards the sweet edge of oblivion; oblivion to all things around them, making them the center of gravity.

Long firm strokes were now accompanied by deep hard thrusts, their unabashed moans filling the room. John started to meet each pump of Sherlock’s hand, all rhythm forgotten as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, seeing a firework behind closed lids as his climax washed over him in relentless waves, coating Sherlock’s hand with the evidence. It didn’t take Sherlock any longer and after a few additional thrusts, he held still again, every muscle in his body tense as his own orgasm wound its way in a deep groan out of his throat. Involuntarily he shuddered another deep thrust into John, embracing his lover to steady himself, waiting for the impulses to ebb away.

When his body had consumed the last throb of pleasure, he withdrew from John completely spent and let himself fall into the soft mattress, rolling on his back. His ribcage heaved with every gulp of oxygen.

John fell into the place beside his lover, dipping the mattress while doing so. Carefully he stretched his body, spent joints creaking in the effort. “God, I’m too old for this.” He laughed playfully.

Sherlock turned his head, facing his lover. He regarded him for a moment, narrowing his eyes and biting nervously the inside of his lips. “In good times and in bad,” his baritone rasped.

“Hmm?” John turned his own head towards Sherlock.

“That’s what they say, don’t they?”

Suddenly John’s eyebrows shot up as understanding hit him, “Are you just proposing to me?”

Sherlock weighed John’s question. A question which often lingered in his mind but he never had the courage to ask aloud. He was simply too afraid of rejection given John’s past and the end of his first marriage.

“What would you say?” He chewed his lips anxiously.

John’s eyes moved from incredulous to overwhelmed with emotions and a slow smile curled around his lips, all itching forgotten, “I’d say _yes_.”

They let this news sink in but before long they were in for a lazy third round.

 

END


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